The Ever-Locked Room
by Bedelia
Summary: When an experimental spell goes awry, the spirit of someone long dead ends up stuck in Hermione's mind. Any romance that involves Fred Weasley is bound to be a bit unconventional, but even he never expected this.
1. The Meaning of Life

**The Ever-Locked Room**

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_**Warnings:**__ Sexual scenes (though nothing terribly explicit), language, character death (not Hermione, and not Fred in a permanent way).**  
Disclaimer: **__I don't own anything related to Harry Potter. This is an amateur, nonprofit work._

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**Chapter One: The Meaning of Life**

It's funny, really. Philosophers and other intellectual sorts — both Muggle and magical — have puzzled and theorised about the meaning of life for millennia, but in the end I think it was four musicians from Liverpool, of all places, who came closest to the truth.

All you need is love.

-oOo-

"Oi, Granger!" I shouted, fuming.

I had no idea what I was going to say, beyond the obvious swear words. All I knew for certain was that I wanted to confront her.

I never called her Granger. She was Granger to people like Malfoy and his cronies. To us Weasleys, she was always Hermione. It was softer, more personal. Even so, I decided to make an exception just this once.

She had, after all, recently threatened to get my _mother _involved with her prefect nonsense.

Sighing, she turned around and leaned against the trunk of a nearby tree. A light breeze rustled past, lifting her hair into a puffy halo and making it look even more mad than usual.

"Fred, if you're going to try talking to me about testing your products on innocent children, then don't even bother," she said, crossing her arms over her chest. "I don't want to hear it. If you keep it up, you _deserve_ to have someone write to your mother. What you and George are doing is irresponsible, reckless…"

I tuned out around that point. Have you ever been lectured by Hermione? The girl can go on for _hours_, given the right subject. Start her going about house elf rights sometime, I dare you. The only person I've met who can match her is my mum, but maybe it's just that they're the only two I've ever bothered to pretend to listen to.

I'd quite like to see Hermione and Mum have a scold-off someday, actually. George and I could sell tickets and take bets.

Anyway, as we stood there next to the lake, Hermione working herself into a frenzy over my alleged crimes against humanity, I started thinking of unorthodox ways to get her mouth to stop moving.

Not anything like_ that_, you little pervert. Get your mind out of the gutter. Innocent stuff, like asking her for help with my homework (bad idea; I'd actually have to_ do_ my homework in that scenario) or pointing at something behind her, saying, "Look, a three-headed monkey!" and running away when her back was turned.

I decided to kiss her. To be fair, it seemed like it'd get the funniest reaction. I expected her to blush, stammer, and proceed to avoid me for the next few weeks. What I got was something entirely different.

There was the expected squeak of surprise and sudden resemblance to a statue, but once she recovered from the initial shock, she _kissed me back_. Hard.

It escalated into something angry and rough — all nipping teeth and tugging hair and battles for dominance. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I dimly acknowledged that perhaps Ron would view me kissing the girl he fancied as a betrayal, but hey, it wasn't like I was marrying her. It was just a little snog.

A little snog that left us both breathless, wide-eyed, and a bit turned on.

You may think I can't know for certain about that last one where Hermione is concerned, but trust me. There is no bloody way she wasn't turned on after that kiss.

"What the hell was _that_?" she asked, jerking out of my arms and backing away like a skittish, frightened animal. She only stopped her retreat when her left foot met the lake water with a loud slosh.

Looking back now, I'm not sure what was my favourite part about that day: the fact that it was my first kiss with Hermione, or the fact that it was the first time I heard her swear.

"No idea," I replied, failing to contain my laughter as she wrinkled her nose, hopped around on one foot, and cast a Drying Charm.

"Maybe…maybe we should just pretend it never happened," she said.

Ah,_ there_ was the shy, embarrassed Hermione I knew my kisses would draw out. She stared at the muddy ground, refusing to meet my eyes.

It was, I have to admit, kind of cute.

I grinned. "All right. If you think you_ can _forget it, then be my guest. But bear in mind I have every intention of repeating the experience the next time I want to make you stop talking." I waggled my eyebrows when she looked up with anger flaring in her eyes. "It was _much_ more enjoyable than a Silencing Charm."

Hermione threw her still damp shoe at my back as I walked away with a swagger in my step.

I probably deserved it.

-oOo-

George gave me no end of hell once I told him about my kissing escapades with Hermione. He thought it was the funniest thing he'd heard since Lee told an off-colour about Umbridge, Filch, and the Giant Squid.

The joke involved the phrase "ten times your pleasure." That's all I'm going to reveal, because I _really_ don't want to revisit those mental images.

I, in turn, gave Hermione no end of hell. The amount of winks and knowing looks I sent her way was beyond shameless. It probably would have been even worse, had I not been distracted with plotting against Old Toad Face. The way Hermione always went beet-red when I shot her a cocky grin never seemed to get old.

After she complimented our fireworks, George started pestering me to snog her again. "Operation Tame the Shrew," he called it. The delusional sod thought I'd be able to wheedle the newest password for the prefects' bathroom out of her by the end of the day with my talented lips. His long-term plans involved her organising first years to act as our test subjects.

Yeah, definitely delusional. I know I'm damn good, but some things are beyond even me.

I did kiss her once more while we were still at Hogwarts, but it was too late to be of any benefit to George and his nefarious schemes. It happened the day before our now legendary exit.

When I told George that I intended to do some last-minute research for our upcoming inventions, he asked me if I'd even be able to find the library, since we gave the Marauder's Map to Harry. Sometimes that boy has no faith in me.

Honestly. As if I'm not capable of asking for directions.

Once I got there (all on my own, might I add), I discovered Hermione wandering the stacks, her fingers dancing along the spines of ancient books and her eyes narrowed in concentration as she searched for whatever dull tome had brought her to the dusty quiet and eerie calm of the library.

"Psst," I whispered, snaking my arm around her waist and dragging her into the shadows. "C'mere."

"Fred!" she gasped. "What are you doing?"

I shrugged. "Saying goodbye, of course."

"Goodbye? But…oh. The diversion you've planned for Harry tomorrow?" Wringing her hands, she looked up at me with worried brown eyes. "You're _really_ planning on leaving? Forever?"

Her voice cracked on the last word, and fuck me if it wasn't the most adorable thing ever. I'm sure the grin that spread across my face was far more fond than smug, in spite of my efforts to make it seem otherwise.

"Gonna miss me, are you?" I murmured, giving one of her curls a gentle, teasing tug.

She snorted. "Yeah, like I'd miss a headache. It's…it's just such a shame to see anyone squandering their opportunity for an education. I know Umbridge has been absolutely dreadful, but you're so close to being finished…"

Cupping her face in my hands, I offered her a tiny smile as her breath caught in her throat and her words trailed off. This time, I made my intentions clear. I bent down slowly, waiting until her eyes fluttered shut in anticipation before I closed the last few millimetres between our lips. Feeling her pulse race beneath my fingers, I smiled into the kiss and let my hands trail down her body to rest on her waist. When she took the initiative and deepened the kiss, sweeping her tongue past my parted lips, my stomach did stupid, giddy little somersaults.

In stark contrast to our first kiss, it was gentle and tender: a bittersweet goodbye.

"I'll miss you, I think," I said softly. "It's been fun antagonising you, even if you_ did_ hit below the belt sometimes. You were a worthy opponent."

With a wink and a quick hug, I turned and dashed away before she had a chance to respond. I might have been imagining it, but as I left, I was certain I heard her whisper that she _would_ miss me.

This, I thought, was a considerable improvement over having a shoe chucked at my back.

-oOo-

When Hermione and company visited our shop prior to the start of the next Hogwarts school year, I took advantage of the opportunity to get her on her own once she returned from wherever she'd gone with Ron and Harry. I'd originally intended to leave our interaction at a few flirtatious smirks and the gift of a Patented Daydream Charm, but I couldn't resist pressing for more. I felt bad about her black eye, and who knew when I'd have the opportunity to annoy her again?

George quirked a knowing eyebrow as I grabbed Hermione's elbow and steered her into the back room. Bless him, he distracted Mum for me by showing her a Shield Hat — one of our few mother appropriate items.

"So," I said. "Are you looking forward to your first full year at Hogwarts without those pesky Weasley twins?"

"Well, only one of them is irritating, really," she replied, chuckling. "The other has sort of grown on me."

"Oh yeah?"

"Of course." Grinning, she let out a dramatic sigh. "I'm going to miss George so much!"

I know. I walked right into that one. Pathetic. On the plus side, it did give me the opportunity to swoop in and kiss her laughing mouth.

"Fred," she said, pulling away after precious few brushes of her soft lips against mine. "What _is_ this? What are we doing?"

"I don't know," I said, landing another peck on her lips. "But it's fun."

"Listen, Fred." She backed away from me, adopting her Serious Hermione Face. "Your brother…I mean, he and I aren't…but I—"

"You fancy Ron." Shrugging, I moved closer. "I know. He'll make his move eventually; just give him time."

I knew my stolen kisses with Hermione would have to come to an end once Ron got his act together. What we had was nothing more than a diversion — a silly, harmless flirtation between friends. No point in dancing around the issue when we both knew it was inevitable.

She looked at me as though I'd just announced my intention to woo Umbridge with bouquets of sickeningly cute kittens and ballads about order and discipline. I could almost see the cogs in her brain at work, trying to discern what hidden meanings could be lurking within my simple, honest statement.

"You confuse me," she whispered, shaking her head.

I grinned. "That's what makes this so much fun."

When I moved in for another kiss, she didn't waste any more time with talking.

-oOo-

I didn't feel jealous as I watched Hermione cry on Ron's shoulder during Dumbledore's funeral. I'm not really sure _what_ I felt. Whatever the sinking, ineffable emotion swirling in the pit of my stomach was, it wasn't pleasant. The looming, rapidly approaching end of our "harmless fun" made me more melancholy than I ever would've expected.

When people were milling about later, talking in low, sombre tones, I found Hermione standing on her own next to the lake, near the spot where we first kissed.

"Hey," I said.

"Hey."

I know you're probably reeling from our stunning conversational skills. Please, try to contain yourself.

Not knowing what else to do, I slipped an arm around her trembling shoulders. She turned to me at once, burying her face in my chest and letting out a gasping sob that made me want to hunt Snape down and kill the greasy git for making her so sad.

"I'm leaving," she said, her words muffled by the thick fabric of my stuffy dress robes.

"Oh, right. Well, I'll probably see you at the Burrow later—"

"No, I didn't mean right now." Shaking her head, she backed up and focused her tear-filled eyes on my face. "Harry, Ron, and I are leaving after Bill and Fleur's wedding. Harry's going to finish this. Which means—" she let out a sad gasp of laughter, "—that I'll be dropping out of Hogwarts even earlier than you did."

"Trust me, you won't be missing much." I forced a smile and dabbed the moisture from her cheeks with one of my sleeves. A handkerchief might have been a good idea, but I hadn't thought of that ahead of time. "Hey, will I get a goodbye kiss before you go?"

"Of course," she whispered, her voice choked with some mysterious, happier emotion. As she traced my lower lip with her forever ink-smudged index finger, her mouth curved into a soft smile.

"What about a goodbye shag?" I asked.

"_Fred_!"

Her scandalised laughter rang out, loud and genuine and wonderful. In that moment, I wanted to say bugger the war and to hell with family loyalty. If I could steal her away and hide her from megalomaniacal wizards who wanted to kill her and baby brothers who wanted to snog her, then everything would be perfect forever as long as I could make her keep laughing like that.

But the world doesn't work that way, does it?

Chuckling, I wrapped my arms around her in a warm, friendly hug. "Can't blame a bloke for trying."

-oOo-

My goodbye kiss arrived the night before Bill and Fleur's wedding, when the air in the Burrow was thick with the heat of summer and buzzing with the sounds of sleep.

I suspected that Hermione had either forgotten her promise or decided to back out, but just as I started to drift off, a timid knock sounded on the door of the room George and I shared as children. George grumbled and rolled over, but gave no other indication that he'd heard the light rapping of knuckles against timeworn wood. His stocky body looked comically large in the narrow single bed. Why he didn't cast an Enlargement Charm, I didn't know, but I was tempted to take a picture. I undoubtedly would have, if I hadn't had much more important things to attend to.

By the time I tiptoed across the room (expertly avoiding the squeakiest floorboards) and opened the door, Hermione looked ready to bolt. Without a word, she gave me a nervous smile, took my hand, and led me downstairs to the kitchen.

I opened my mouth to make a suggestive comment about midnight snacks, but before I could make a sound, Hermione stood on her tiptoes, fisted her hands in the front of my pyjama top, and covered my lips with her own. It was the first time she'd ever initiated a kiss between us, and it was fucking brilliant. She pressed the length of her body against mine, as though she craved my touch; as though no matter how close we got, it could never be enough. I'd always kept my hands in neutral areas during our past encounters, but she poured such passion and longing into that kiss that I couldn't help myself; my hands wandered up her ribcage, blazing a trail over what I was sure was uncharted territory. When my thumbs brushed against the undersides of her breasts, she drew in a jagged gasp and kissed me harder.

Fucking brilliant. I think I actually _moaned _at some point.

"Hello," I whispered as she pulled away, shooting her a lazy grin.

She laughed. "Hi."

"Excellent. Now that we've greeted each other, that can't count as my goodbye kiss, can it? I demand another one."

To my complete and utter disappointment, she didn't comply. Sighing, she rested her forehead on my shoulder and muttered, "I'm an idiot."

"That's not exactly the general consensus among people who know you, in case you hadn't noticed."

"I _am_, though. You told me up front that this…_thing_ was just fun, and I've barely even _seen_ you for the past year. I shouldn't be feeling like this."

Happiness and guilt rushed through my body in waves, simultaneously beautiful and gut-wrenching. Was she saying what I thought she was trying to say?

"Shouldn't be feeling like what?" I asked in a breathless voice, not entirely sure I wanted to know the answer.

"Well, um," she murmured. In the moonlight that spilled through the kitchen windows, she was all pale skin and colourless shadows, but I knew her cheeks were flooded with a deep pink blush. "Ron's had my heart for years, but now…I think you have a tiny part of it as well. I know it's silly, and it's probably just a crush, but oh, I don't know."

I could have told her that I thought I might feel the same way about her, but what good would that have done? It wouldn't change anything. She'd still leave with my brother, and he'd still use the hints he'd gleaned from that stupid book George and I gave him to win her over once and for all. No matter how far I'd pushed the boundaries with Hermione, I couldn't cross that final line: the one that would really and truly make me a traitor to Ron.

Not for a maybe. Not for a whisper of an emotion that might never amount to anything.

Instead of the truth, I fell back on my favourite response to any situation: a joke.

"Ah, well, there was no avoiding it, really," I said, trying to keep my tone light. "There isn't a witch alive who can resist my charms."

Scoffing, she yanked out of my embrace. "Thanks, Fred," she said in a flat voice. "Now I _really_ feel like an idiot. I shouldn't have told you. Forget I said anything."

"Hermione, wait!" I said, reaching out to grab her hand as she turned to flee. "I'm sorry. I was just trying to make you laugh."

And then, she _did_ laugh, though the sound wasn't the carefree, joyful response I preferred to hear from her. It was short and harsh. Wrapping my arms around her waist, I waited until she gave me a tiny, forgiving smile before I touched my lips to hers for what I thought would be the last time. With a slow, gentle kiss, I tried to tell her everything I wouldn't let myself say aloud.

I'm pretty sure that if George could read my mind at this point, he would ask me when I grew a uterus.

"I guess this is goodbye," I said, resting my forehead against hers and not bothering to disguise the sadness in my voice.

"Gonna miss me, are you?" she murmured.

I smiled at her imitation of me from a million years ago in the Hogwarts library. "Like I'd miss a headache, love."

Her responding laughter gusted across my face, making me shiver and hold her tighter.

"I'll miss you," she said. "Goodbye, Fred."

Given what happened at the Battle of Hogwarts, I'm glad we had that evening. I'm glad _she_ had that evening. I hope it brought her some semblance of comfort during the years we were apart, even if all it did was remind her that I could often be an arse.

-oOo-

I wasn't present for this next scene, which I'm sure is disappointing for you. George and Hermione told me about it years after the fact.

Well, I suppose I _was_ there, after a fashion. My body was in the casket.

Don't worry; I didn't _stay_ dead. It takes more than some crumbly masonry to do in Fred Weasley. I'd love to just speed along the story to the point where I make my grand re-entrance, but this bit is important. You'll see why later.

The day of my funeral dawned bright and unseasonably cold. Hermione struggled to display just the right amount of sadness, offering support to Ron and Ginny while never revealing that she held any feelings for me beyond casual friendship. She focused on silly, insignificant details like changing her outfit four times or helping Fleur with the flowers so she could stave off the grief until she was alone.

She didn't quite make it, in the end. After the service, George found her next to my newly filled grave, staring at the mound of dirt and piles of flowers as the tears she'd been storing up all morning poured down her cheeks in a torrent. As soon as he moved to her side, she pulled him into a gentle, comforting embrace. Unlike the countless other people who had repeated the same generic platitudes when they offered him their condolences, Hermione said nothing, as though she didn't trust her voice to speak through the tears. George said he preferred her method. It seemed more honest.

I think that was the first time they ever hugged.

"How are you holding up?" George asked after an indeterminate amount of time, holding her at arm's length and shattering the mournful silence that had fallen around the two of them.

Sniffling, Hermione let out a weak imitation of a laugh and gave him an affectionate smile. "Aren't I supposed to be the one who asks you that question?"

"_Hell_ no. Don't you dare. If one more person asks me that, I'll hit them with every item from the shop that we…that_ I _have stored in Aunt Muriel's back room. I reckoned no one but me would know to ask_ you_ how you're handling it, though."

"I'm…" She paused, at a loss for words. "I'm about as well as can be expected, I suppose."

He nodded. "Yeah. Hmm. Hey, err…does Ron know about you and Fred?"

"No. _I _don't even know about me and Fred." Sighing, she rifled through her handbag for a fresh tissue. The one she'd been using had all but disintegrated. "I don't…I don't know what we were. A handful of kisses doesn't amount to anything much, does it?"

George scratched the back of his neck and rocked back onto his heels. "Yeah, he could never seem to figure that one out, either. Are you going to tell Ron about…whatever it was?"

"I don't know. Maybe. If we get serious."

"Give me some warning before you do, hey?" he said with a mirthless chuckle. "I want to be sure I'm somewhere far away when _that_ explosion happens."

After sharing a brief, strained laugh, they lapsed into silence. Once again, it was George who spoke first.

"He loved you, I think," he whispered. "In a weird, confused way."

"I loved him, too," she replied. "In a weird, confused way."

It seems nothing short of bizarre that the first time Hermione and I declared our love, such as it was at that point, I was dead and my twin was acting as my proxy.

"I told Perce about you two," George said. "I hope you don't mind. And if you do, well, it's too late to take it back now without a well-cast Obliviate. He wanted to know about F-Fred's life — the bits and pieces that he missed because he was off being a git."

Looking across the cemetery, Hermione locked eyes with a teary Percy. Later, when she told me about that moment, she tried to describe the haunted expression on his face and how it made her heart hurt for him, but to be honest, I don't really like to think about it. It's almost as bad as thinking about what my temporary death did to George — how it broke him. Percy, idiot that he was, blamed himself for what happened to me.

As if _he_ was the one who knocked that bloody wall down. All he did was make sure I died with a smile on my face, which is hardly a crime in my book. It was exactly how I wanted to go, albeit about a hundred years ahead of schedule.

"No," Hermione said. "I don't mind."

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_**A/N: **__The line "All you need is love" was borrowed from The Beatles, obviously. This one is going to be rather short in comparison to my other stuff — just 7 chapters, according to my outline. Thanks for reading! :)_


	2. Seven Years Gone

**Chapter Two: Seven Years Gone**

A lot can happen in seven years. It's enough time for a group of timid eleven year old witches and wizards to progress through their education at Hogwarts, morphing into young adults who think they know everything and are ready to take on the world. In the seven years following my death, life continued much as it always had. People fell in love, got married, and had adorable babies that they saddled with dreadful names.

Just look at Harry and Ginny's second boy. I mean, Albus Severus? _Really_?

Still, aside from more Weasleys entering the world, nothing really _interesting_ happened while I was gone. How could it, without me there to spice things up?

After finishing her final year at Hogwarts, Hermione got a job at the Ministry. Everyone expected her to join the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures and start campaigning for house elf pensions and a dog house for every werewolf and other such things, but she surprised the lot of them by joining Percy in his new profession.

It makes sense that two of the cleverest people I've ever known would want to work as Unspeakables. I can see how delving into the mysteries of magic and the hidden knowledge of the Ministry would appeal to their curious, intellectual natures.

Me, I'd probably end up getting sacked the first day for trying to play Quidditch in the Hall of Prophecy or selling a book full of fabricated secrets about the Ministry to schoolchildren or something, but never mind.

Being unable to discuss their work with anyone outside the Department of Mysteries, Percy and Hermione took to eating lunch together in his office. There, they could babble to their hearts' content about whatever experimental spells or ancient books were making their skirts fly up that week. To this day, I'm still not privy to the majority of what their work entailed. Hermione, damn her, was trained to resist the effects of Veritaserum.

Yeah, you know I tried.

What I _do_ know is that during those seven years, they each carved out a niche for themselves in their department. Hermione gravitated towards the Death Chamber, studying the Veil and the enigmatic whispers that floated through its tattered black fabric. Percy, on the other hand, attempted to work out the puzzles surrounding the most powerful force on earth — something that transcends the boundaries between the magical and the mundane, something far, far greater than death.

He was assigned to the Ever-Locked Room, also known as the Love Chamber.

Merlin knows what Perce's supervisor was smoking when she took a long look at my older brother and thought, "Hmm, yes. Percy Weasley has _just _what it takes to examine the intricacies of love. His attitude and appearance don't scream, 'Virgin' at all!"

Not that I think Percy spent much time lounging by an Amortentia fountain and focusing on romantic love when he was sequestered in the Ever-Locked Room. I can't know for certain (damned confidentiality), but if my hunches are correct, he devoted the majority of his work to the study of familial love.

On the day that Hermione and I were reunited, her morning started out as usual. She fed Crookshanks, wrestled with him a bit to get him to eat the pill she'd hidden in his food, showered, and then rushed to the Ministry without breakfast of her own, eager to start working on her current project. Her stomach grumbled in protest as she pored through book after book in the Department of Mysteries' library, but her growing hunger was easily ignored in favour of important research. By the time her lunch break rolled around, she felt ready for her first try at the spell she'd been formulating for months. As she wolfed her way through two sandwiches and listened to Percy chatter about his morning, she felt a swell of anticipatory nerves, but she had no idea that anything extraordinary was about to take place.

"Are you still keeping quiet about your latest project?" Percy asked, his lower lip turning into an indignant pout as he stared at her over his steaming mug of tea, his eyes wide and pleading.

I don't have any special insight into the twisted workings of my brother's mind, but I bet he was wondering why she was withholding precious knowledge from him and wondering if being a prat would make her cave.

Hermione smiled. "Afraid so. But, if all goes well today, not only will I tell you what I've been up to, I'll show you. Well, assuming I can get clearance, of course."

"Oh, well, in that case, we should get back to work immediately." Leaning over his desk, he brushed a quick kiss against her forehead and gave one of her rebellious curls a gentle tug. Somehow, this had become his traditional method of saying goodbye to her over the course of their deepening friendship. "Good luck."

"Thanks," she said, grinning as she reached up to tousle his immaculate ginger hair. "I don't expect a huge breakthrough right away, but you never know."

She was wrong, of course. What happened next would change everything.

The Death Chamber was empty and silent, save for the ghostly murmurs of the souls beyond the Veil and Hermione's hollow, echoing footsteps on the cold stone floor. Obviously, I was one of those unseen whisperers, but I don't remember it. Almost everyone I meet who knows the basics of my story asks me what it was like to be dead, but I have no recollection of the experience. This response is usually met with frustration, as if they think I'll say, "Well, I've been lying to everyone else, but since it's _you_, I'll tell the truth. Beyond the Veil, it's just one huge orgy. Nothing but sex, sex, and more sex. And the stars of the show were me and your mum."

Okay, so maybe they don't expect that last bit, but seriously. Just because they _want _me to remember something, it doesn't mean I will.

Opening her beaded bag, Hermione withdrew her supplies. In a gold cauldron, she combined the ingredients needed for her spell: armadillo bile, crushed rose thorn, Thestral hair, and salamander blood. The volatile mixture swirled and bubbled, heating itself without the need for a flame. This was the sort of dangerous, unpredictable magic that Luna Lovegood's mother was experimenting with when she died. It was neither Dark nor Light; it existed in erratic, ever-changing winds and shades of grey.

When the potion glowed with an Avada Kedavra green colour, Hermione dipped her fingers into the viscous, warm liquid. It tingled and burned like venom, numbing her hand as she scrawled ancient symbols on the floor. She fought to keep her arm steady and her fears at bay as she sat in the centre of her scribbles and drew Ansuz — the rune that signified communication — on her own forehead.

Drawing in a deep, cleansing breath, she drew her wand, cleared her mind of everything that wasn't me, and started chanting in a low, tense voice.

Percy didn't realise it, but he was the inspiration behind this spell. It was his gnawing, consuming guilt over my death that prompted her to consider the very risky prospect of attempting to communicate with someone behind the Veil. Out of fear of getting his hopes up for nothing, she'd refused to tell him anything about her plans. Other Unspeakables had attempted it in the past, of course, but she still refuses to tell me how successful any of them were.

Leave it to Hermione to risk her life just so Percy and I could have a little chat and he could get some closure.

Sweat ran down her face and neck in rivulets as her chanting grew more intense. Barely intelligible words fell from her lips in rapid succession. Lapsing into a state that existed somewhere between waking and sleeping, she felt herself being pulled in two directions at once. One part of her remained anchored to the physical plane, to the hard, real sensation of the frigid stone pressing against her skin and the acrid stench of the potion she'd brewed. The other part soared free, tethered to her flesh by a long, golden cord. It flitted about the chamber, delighted and unencumbered by the leaden weight of a body.

The plan was for Hermione's spirit to venture past the Veil, speak to me, and then find its way back to the safety of her body along the golden cord. This is not what happened.

As her spirit neared the Veil, still concentrating on finding me, she realised she could make out my voice among the frantic, indecipherable mutterings. She heard me say her name, over and over, asking if it was really her. Loss and elation overwhelmed her in an unexpected wave, setting her vision wobbling. The world seemed to hang off-balance, and the circle of carefully drawn symbols became unstable, leaping off of the floor and whirling around her like a cyclone. Brushing her transparent fingers against the rough Veil, she felt the cool firmness of my hand on the other side for a split-second before the spell exploded with a blinding flash.

The flash is the first thing I remember seeing after the Battle of Hogwarts. At first, I thought I was still there. I tried to shout to my family, Harry, and Hermione, to ask if they were okay, but my mouth wouldn't obey my orders. To my dismay, neither would any of my limbs. I was convinced I'd been paralysed by that bloody wall until I heard a distinctly feminine voice in my head, grumbling about a botched spell. My head turned down without my permission, and my eyes took stock of my body.

_Fred_? a familiar, alarmed female voice echoed through my head as I tried to discern why the hell I'd sprouted a pair of breasts.

"Hermione?" I replied, though the word never left the confines of my mind.

"Oh, God," she said. My mouth moved, but it was her voice that came through my lips.

It was then that I realised it wasn't _my_ body that refused to move the way I wanted it to; it was _hers_. I could feel the stiffness of her limbs and the sore spot on her head where she'd hit it against the floor after the spell threw her down, but I couldn't control any of her movements.

_Okay,_ she thought. _Maybe that spell wasn't such a failure after all._


	3. Dying Wish

**Chapter Three: Dying Wish**

I'm not going to lie. Prior to my untimely death, I imagined being inside Hermione several times. It was to be expected, really. I cared about her, I enjoyed our occasional furtive kisses, and she had nice tits.

While I was _technically_ inside her after the incident in the Death Chamber, it was unfortunately far from the way I envisioned. No naughty bits connecting, no breathy moans, no orgasms — all in all, it was a bit crap.

Reeling and off-balance, Hermione clasped a hand over her mouth as image after image of the two of us together raced through her head. In addition to sharing her physical sensations, I could feel her emotions and see her conscious thoughts. Pangs of longing and sadness swirled around with a healthy dose of love and nostalgia as she remembered my teasing, my kisses, and my laughter.

If I'd been corporeal, my heart would have warmed at how very much those memories meant to her.

"Hermione?" I murmured, my voice quiet and hesitant within her mind. "What happened?"

We soon found that explanations were a lot easier when sharing headspace with someone. In a matter of minutes, I was caught up on my fate at the Battle of Hogwarts, what Hermione had been trying to do with the Veil, and where it all went wrong. As she left the Death Chamber to begin writing up her report for the day, an alarming thought occurred to me.

"Oh, God," I said. "Please tell me I won't be subjected to kissing Ron while I'm sharing your body. We might lose our lunch if that happens. I won't be able to control my nausea."

Hermione laughed. _No, you won't have to go through that,_ she thought. _ Ron and I… _

The scene in her mind shifted and wavered, changing to one just after the war. I saw her and Ron huddled up together on his narrow single bed at the Burrow, bathed in an orange glow from his lurid, Chudley Cannons-inspired walls. Smiling, he tucked a lock of hair behind her ear (a move I'd wager he learnt from the book George and I bought him) and pressed his lips against hers.

She felt nothing. Well, not _nothing_; there was awkwardness and platonic love by the bucketload, but no passion. Judging by his disappointed frown, Ron felt the same way. For all that they'd danced around each other for years, when they finally got down to some serious snogging, there was just no chemistry.

"We waited too long, didn't we?" he asked.

"I think so," she replied in a defeated whisper.

And that was that. A sad smile graced Hermione's lips as she allowed her mind to drift back to the present.

If I was tempted to do a mental victory dance around her brain, no one can prove it.

I wanted Ron to be happy, of course, but if he could find that happiness without shagging my erstwhile kissing partner, then wasn't that better for everyone involved?

Any elation I felt faded in the next instant. She tried frantically to suppress certain memories, but trying to _not_ think about something is a surefire way to make sure it overwhelms all of your other thoughts. Occlumency didn't work; I was already ensconced inside her head.

Incidentally, at one point, I held far more knowledge about the work of an Unspeakable than any civilian should, thanks to my privileged position in Hermione's brain. Her shrew of a boss saw to it that everything that didn't have to do with my adventures in returning from beyond the Veil was erased, though, damn her.

Part of me still wishes she would have also done away with the images that Hermione tried to keep from me that day.

Who or what was the subject of these forbidden thoughts, you ask?

Oliver_ fucking_ Wood.

I saw a rapid-fire sequence of Oliver flirting with Hermione when they ran into each other after she went to see Ginny and the rest of the Harpies play against Puddlemere United; Oliver kissing her the way only_ I_ had ever kissed her; Oliver, _ugh_, moving his body between her naked thighs and whispering gentle words of affection as he took her virginity.

"And I thought he was a pain in my arse on the Quidditch pitch," I grumbled.

_Sorry you had to see that_, she thought with a rueful chuckle.

If she could feel my irrational jealousy, she didn't mention it. For her part, she mostly just felt embarrassed, though I could sense some lingering resentment and fondness for the prat.

To this day, Hermione and Oliver are still friends, but his first love and main priority will always be Quidditch.

_It's long over; don't worry, _she added._ I don't intend to kiss anyone in the near future._

"If I had a body of my own, that would definitely not be the case," I said.

Her face heated with a pleased blush.

Yeah, I still had it.

"Hey, Hermione," I said. "Before you start trying to fix this, I have a last request. There's someone I'd like to see…"

-oOo-

A flash of dingy blonde hair caught Hermione's attention as she ascended the stairs to the flat I used to share with my twin. To our mutual surprise, Luna Lovegood skipped through the front door, her clothing dishevelled and a lazy, dreamy grin plastered on her face. During my absence, she'd morphed from an odd, gangly girl into an odd, gangly woman.

I think I would have recognised her even if it had been ninety-seven years instead of a mere seven.

"Luna?" Hermione said, fixing her friend with an incredulous stare. "What are you doing here?"

"Oh, hello, Hermione!" Luna replied. "I was just having some sex with George."

Blimey.

Narrowing her eyes, Hermione internally scolded me for my sudden fit of laughter. I couldn't help it. I only wished I could see the expression on Hermione's face. I bet it was priceless.

"I didn't know you two were going out," Hermione said.

Luna tilted her head to one side in confusion. "We don't go out. He floo-calls me, and I come over. We stay in his flat and just—"

"I see," Hermione interrupted.

"Hey now," I said when I felt a burst of protective irritation rush through her body. "He's not doing anything wrong. They're both adults."

In response, she treated me to a bevy of images starring George and an astonishing array of girls. Personally, I thought it was rather impressive that he managed to pull so much with only one ear. He was still almost as handsome as me, naturally, but what woman wants to look at a big, gaping hole on the side of a bloke's face? That's just not attractive. If you ask me, he should've received some sort of trophy for his accomplishments.

Hermione disagreed, of course. She reckoned it was an unhealthy method of coping or some such nonsense.

Clearly, she'd never experienced the healing power of really amazing sex. How could she have? Oliver probably stuck to the missionary position like it was mandated by his religion. Anything that required too much concentration would mean he couldn't keep one part of his mind free to go over Quidditch stats in bed. Luna, on the other hand…well, no one_ that_ weird could be satisfied with vanilla.

And she looked quite bendy, too. Well done, Georgie.

"He's rather good at it, you know," Luna said. "I suppose he's had quite a lot of practice, hasn't he? It seems to make him happy. Well, I should get going, or I'll be late for dinner with Daddy. Bye, Hermione!"

Blinking owlishly, Hermione watched her go. I expected her to pound angrily on the door and deliver a lecture to my brother as soon as he opened it, but as soon as Luna was out of sight, Hermione simply turned the doorknob and let herself in.

"Hermione," I said. "Since when are you familiar enough with George to just walk into his flat without an invitation?"

Had she been one of the witches who paraded through his bedroom? She _did _seem rather fond of Quidditch players and Weasleys, after all.

Her responding thought was soft, washing over my consciousness like a sympathetic caress.

_Since you died_.

I was hit by a wave of Hermione's feelings for George: a funny blend of sisterly love, concern, and exasperation. She tried to keep the memories from me again, but they came in spite of her best efforts. Horrified, I cursed my position as a captive audience and watched her visions of George's struggle to carry on after I was gone.

Hermione had taken it upon herself to look after him. She was even more vigilant than Mum at making sure he was eating, cleaning, and not sitting around the flat, wallowing in his misery.

In the more recent memories, he seemed better; he drowned his sorrows in a multitude of women and played pranks on Hermione at every opportunity. She reacted to his jokes much as she had when we were in school: with scolding and exclamations of fury, though I could see she was secretly amused most of the time.

"Thank you," I said, hoping she could feel my gratitude for how she'd made it her mission to help my twin navigate his all-consuming grief.

_You don't have to thank me_, she thought. _ But you're welcome_.

_Now, how are we going to do this?_ she asked, wringing her hands together. _ I can't actually _tell_ him that you're in my head, you know._

"Just do what I tell you to do, and he'll get it," I replied. "Trust me."

_I do_.

"George," she called. "Are you home?"

Clad only in a pair of faded grey pyjama trousers, George emerged from the back of the flat. Seeing the mirror of my own face appear nearly a decade older than I remembered it was beyond bizarre, but even more disturbing was the lack of enthusiasm behind his smile. He was a shadow of the laughing, carefree brother I knew.

"Oh, he looks so _sad_," I said. "Hermione, quick! Show him your tits!"

Startled, she let out a strangled laugh. George quirked an eyebrow.

"All right, Hermione?" he asked.

"Yes, yes, I'm fine." _Behave yourself, Fred_.

"What?" I asked, feigning innocence. "It'd cheer him up, and you _did_ say you'd trust me and do what I say…"

_Within reason! And he just got a show from Luna, in case you forgot_.

"Ah, yeah. Fair enough. Okay, let's see…"

Under my direction, Hermione led George to the sofa, perched next to him, and said, "George, do you remember that time you and Fred turned Percy's hair pink with Muggle hair dye?"

A slow, bittersweet grin spread across his face. "Of course. Ron tell you about that one?"

"No. What about that promise you made to Fred to repeat the experience with a more permanent charm on Percy's wedding day if Percy ever found some woman who was—" she hesitated, grumbling internally at the words I wanted her to echo, "—stupid enough to marry him? Remember that?"

_Fred, I wish you wouldn't make me say things like that about Percy. He's really missed you, you know._

"Perce knows I tease him out of love, and this is all in the name of helping George realise that I'm behind what you're saying," I said.

"Yes, I remember," George said slowly, preventing Hermione from responding to me as he stared at her in complete bewilderment. "But how did _you_ know about it? Fred and I only ever told each other."

"If you could talk to Fred just once more, what would you say?" she asked

"Hermione," he said, his voice brimming with wariness. "What's this about?"

"I can't say."

"Can't say? What the…hmm. Something to do with work?"

"All I'm allowed to tell you about work is that I've been working in the Death Chamber."

Running a frustrated hand through his shaggy hair, George stood up and began pacing back and forth.

"I don't know what I'd say to Fred," he muttered. "Nothing would be…y'know…_enough_, I guess."

As uncomfortable as he looked while baring his feelings to Hermione, I still understood what he meant. If I'd been in his place, words would have failed me. They could never be adequate.

"This is my chance, though, isn't it?" he continued, nodding when Hermione made no reply. "You're trying to tell me, but you can't actually _say _it."

"Maybe you wouldn't have to say anything to Fred," she said, standing up and placing a gentle hand on his bare shoulder. "You could just do what you two do best. One last prank?"

I didn't whisper Hermione's solution from my place in her head; she came up with it all on her own. How sexy is _that_?

If I hadn't adored her before, that suggestion would've tipped the scales in her favour.

A brilliantly genuine grin dawned on George's face. "Perfect," he said.

I had to agree.


	4. The Wonder of it All

**Chapter Four: The Wonder of it All**

Rubbing his hands together in anticipation, George looked up at the rickety, lopsided building that had been our childhood home. In the years since I'd last seen it, the Burrow hadn't changed at all. I was certain I even recognised a few of the potato-headed gnomes who cavorted in patches of clover and gnawed on the leaves of Mum's Flutterby bush.

"So," George said, giving Hermione a smile that seemed a few inches closer to his old grin. "Who's going to be our victim?"

Our last prank together had to be something big, something unexpected, something _daring_.

It was time for Operation M.

"How about Operation M?" Hermione dutifully repeated my words, linking her arm with George's as they walked up the winding dirt path together.

"Blimey," he whispered, staring at her in slack-jawed amazement. "You really can talk to…well. All right. I reckon Operation M will do nicely." Pausing, he glanced at his watch. "She should be getting ready to start cooking dinner about now; Dad will be flooing home soon. Wait here. I'll check our old room — there's bound to be _something_ in there that we can use."

With that, he turned on the spot and vanished with a crack, choosing to apparate to his destination to avoid detection by Mum. Hermione wasn't alone for long; Percy popped into view at the edge of the property, a wide, enthusiastic smile lighting up his face when he noticed Hermione standing next to the house.

"Hello, Hermione," he said as he jogged up to her. I couldn't remember ever seeing Perce _jog_ before. "What brings you here?"

"Oh, just helping George with something," she replied. "You?"

"It's Wednesday," he said, as though that explained anything at all. "I always have dinner with my parents on Wednesdays."

Damn. Things had certainly changed since the Battle of Hogwarts. It was sort of sweet to see that Perce had made such an effort to rebuild his relationship with our parents. I always knew that even as an adult, he'd be a huge mummy's boy.

"Are you going to stay for dinner?" Percy asked. A glimmer of hope flashed in his eyes, making my mind whir with suspicion.

"Um, I don't think so. I guess it depends on George. If not, then I'll see you at lunch tomorrow."

This was the first time I heard of their lunches together at work. Hermione's head filled with images of their daily ritual as an answer to my silent questions. Where she saw friendship and brotherly affection in his words and little touches, I saw something else entirely. Perce and I may not have been best mates, but I knew my brother well enough to be certain he did not view Hermione as an older, frizzier Ginny.

As if to confirm my hunch, when Percy said goodbye, he did his usual act of kissing Hermione's forehead and tugging on one of her curls. I cannot tell you how disturbing it was to be able to _feel_ my brother doing this. Ugh. His lips lingered on her skin, warm and soft. I felt him draw in a long breath.

He smelled her hair! Talk about solid evidence. I may as well have caught him browsing china patterns for their wedding or doodling her initials next to his and sighing dreamily.

"Hermione! Hermione!" I said as Percy walked off towards the house. "Perce _fancies_ you!"

_What? _she thought. _Don't be absurd, Fred. We're just good friends._

The panic and doubt that coursed through her chest suggested that Percy's romantic feelings were not reciprocated. At the time, I couldn't find it within myself to feel very bad for him.

No, that came later.

Having found and dusted off some suitable supplies in our old room, George returned to Hermione's side. Motioning for her to be quiet, he led her around to the back of the house and tiptoed into the kitchen.

The sounds of Percy and Dad chatting about some dull thing at the Ministry floated in from the sitting room. Perfect. Our victim was alone. Mum stood in front of the stove, humming to herself and levitating handfuls of chopped carrots into a simmering pot of beef stew. There were perhaps a few more wrinkles around her eyes, more white hairs woven through the familiar ginger, but she still radiated the same sense of soft, somewhat overprotective maternal comfort.

I kind of wanted to ask Hermione to give her a hug, even though it would have spoiled our sneak attack. The effect losing one of her children must have had on her didn't bear thinking about. Better to focus on the practical joke that was unfolding, orchestrated by George.

It wasn't that we'd never played pranks on our mother before; anyone who knew George and me longer than a few minutes knew that prior to George losing his ear, we were forever tricking her into thinking I was him and vice versa. Startling her via apparition once we'd passed our tests was also a source of endless amusement. We'd just never done anything really _huge_ where she was concerned. That was what Operation M was all about.

Before you start thinking any ridiculous thoughts, we weren't _afraid _of her.

Much.

No, our reluctance stemmed from our knowledge that when Mum reached a certain level of anger, her voice grew to such an intense volume that I swear she could shatter glass, rupture eardrums, and possibly cause an explosion of apocalyptic proportions. It was all for the greater good, you see. Well, and for the sake of our own hearing.

And really, didn't we put the poor woman through enough as it was?

With a nod towards the sink full of sudsy water, where a pan was being scrubbed in slow circles by a lazy dish brush, George pressed something cold and round into Hermione's palm.

"You'll know what to do?" he mouthed.

Glancing down at what appeared, to her, to be a green coin of wax, Hermione waited for my confirmation before she nodded. George grinned.

"Hi, Mum!" he said, popping out from our hiding place behind the table. Some diced onions fell to the floor as Mum jumped, raising a hand to her mouth and letting out a startled squeak.

"George!" she said, the kiss she planted on his cheek belying her scolding tone. "Goodness, don't sneak up on me like that! What brings you here? Are you hungry?"

While George distracted Mum with chitchat, Hermione moved according to my directions, creeping towards the sink, keeping just out of Mum's line of sight. I was surprised, pleased, and a little proud when, without hesitation or silent reprimands, she chucked the green coin into the dishwater. George faked a coughing attack, drowning out the sizzling, hiccuping sounds that erupted from the sink as the coin dissolved.

_What is this thing?_ Hermione thought.

"We never did come up with a name for it," I replied. "I guess George didn't continue with it after I was gone. We were still in the midst of testing it when we had to move to Muriel's, and our progress just sort of fizzled out when we got there. Y'know, there was a distressing lack of willing test subjects at my great aunt's place. No first years at all! It was dreadful."

Hermione didn't manage to stifle her responding laugh well enough to avoid alerting Mum to her presence. Mum beamed at her, opening her mouth to issue a greeting and, I'm sure, an invitation for dinner, but confusion flickered over her face before she could make a sound. The dish brush and pan skittered across the counter, thrown by a thick, iridescent green bubble that doubled in size every second, filling the sink and spilling over onto the windowsill.

For a few moments, the room was cast in an eerie green glow as light from the widow filtered through the bubble. Approaching it with caution, Mum reached forward and gave the bubble a prod with the tip of her wand. It shimmered and quivered, letting out a low rumble that almost sounded like a growl.

Before Mum could leap back, the bubble popped, drenching her with green slime and making her look like she'd stood in front of a giant as he sneezed. Her indignant, disgusted shout brought Dad and Percy rushing to the kitchen.

"Molly," Dad said, making a nervous, futile effort to straighten his lopsided glasses — a move that Perce unconsciously mirrored a second later. "What on earth—"

"Here, Mum," George said, reaching into his pocket and withdrawing a white handkerchief with rainbow stitching along the edges. "You can clean up with this."

"Do _not_ accept one of those handkerchiefs if George offers you one," I told Hermione as she wrinkled her nose and wiped at a few flecks of ooze that had splattered onto her arms and face.

As Mum scrubbed at her skin with the bit of cloth, the slime vanished, only to be replaced by a rainbow coloured stain that I knew would take at least a week to wash off. George's lips twitched, and I knew a big belly laugh was threatening to overpower him and break free.

"Err, Mum," Percy said. "You might want to—"

"Oh!" Mum exclaimed, cutting off his warning as she caught a glimpse of her Pride Parade-ready arms. "George Weasley! Did you…?"

To my complete bewilderment, instead of shrieking lectures and pointless questions about when George was finally going to grow up, Mum's response to the prank consisted of flinging her arms around my twin's shoulders as tears welled up in her eyes. Chuckling, George patted her back, heedless of the muck that transferred from her clothes to his.

"What the hell?" I asked as Hermione turned to see bemused smiles on Dad and Percy's faces. We'd just executed a messy, unnecessary practical joke against Mum, and Perce was _smiling_? I couldn't wrap my mind around it.

_He doesn't do this sort of thing very often anymore_, Hermione explained. _Now and then, sure, but nothing like the two of you used to get up to._

Well, that was just absurd and wrong. George without pranks was like Hagrid without frightening beasts. It didn't _work_.

Hermione gave in to Mum's repeated requests to join the family for dinner, barely managing to contain her laughter as she sat across the table from a still-slimy George and talked with the new, more colourful version of Mum. Once they were stuffed full of hearty stew, George and Hermione wandered outside to disapparate, while Percy stayed behind to finish up his conversation with Dad.

"Hermione," George said, touching her shoulder as they stepped from the warmth and chatter of the house into the cool, hushed stillness of the night. "Err, thanks."

She smiled. "My pleasure."

"Goodbye," he murmured.

All three of us knew he wasn't talking to her. I couldn't bear replying in kind; the word rang with such hopeless finality. It was bloody depressing. So, I asked her to say something else. With a quiet laugh and a shake of her head, she complied.

"Take care of yourself, Your Holeyness."

George grinned.

-oOo-

As soon as Hermione entered her flat and locked the door behind her, she began stripping off her clothes. Her perfunctory attempt to clean up using the bathroom sink at the Burrow had not been much of a success; globs of green slime still clung to her like barnacles. She didn't give much thought to my presence in her head until she entered the bathroom and turned on the light.

Bless whoever decided to install a full-length mirror in that bathroom.

Hermione's eyes clamped shut in an instant, depriving me of my lovely view of her naked body, but the damage was already done. I let out a long, low whistle, delighting in the furious blush that flooded into her cheeks. Keeping her eyes closed, she turned on the shower and stepped under the hot spray.

"Oh, come on, Hermione," I said, laughing as she fumbled blindly for her bottle of shampoo. "Are you really going to bathe with your eyes shut?"

_Well, what would you suggest I do?_

Oh, damn. Talk about a loaded question. I had all _sorts_ of wonderful suggestions for her, but I wasn't sure how she'd react to most of them. On the plus side, at least she couldn't slap me.

"Open your eyes," I said. "I can't promise not to look, since that's under your control at the moment, but you really have no reason to be embarrassed."

She scoffed. _Easy for you to say. You're not the one who's exposed._

"Hey, that's not fair. You know I'd show you mine if I could."

Laughing, she opened her eyes, but kept them focused on the boring white and black tiles inside her shower. The mirror had already fogged over, denying me any hope of another glimpse when she faced the clear shower curtain.

_You could, you know._

"Could what?"

_Err, nothing! That was just one of those fleeting thoughts that crop up. You know, the kind you'd never repeat to anyone, but you still can't help thinking?_

"Not really. I generally say what I think. Come on, tell me. What is it that I could do?"

_When you picture something in your mind, I can see it too._

Her face flamed with another blush as my earlier words came back to me: "You know I'd show you mine if I could."

Well, hell. Either I was imagining things, or Hermione had just asked me to perform a mental striptease.

Groaning, she turned off the tap and wrapped a fluffy, sky blue towel around herself._ I'm really starting to hate this not having a filter thing, _she thought.

On impulse, I decided to try an experiment. I knew that anything I said would likely only serve to make her more embarrassed. Ordinarily, a blush from Hermione would amuse me and make me try my best to get it to intensify, but the fact that she couldn't keep any of her most private thoughts from me tugged at something in my conscience.

Yeah, I have a conscience. I know. It surprised me too.

Instead of words, I went for actions — or as close to them as I could get in my current state, at least.

I thought back to our last kiss — the one in the Burrow's kitchen, the night before Bill and Fleur's wedding. I pictured her standing there in the moonlight, frizzy hair tumbling over pale shoulders and dark eyes shining with nervousness. I remembered the exact sensation of her mouth moving under mine as her hands clung to my pyjama shirt and the length of her body pressed up against me.

_Fred?_

"It's been far,_ far_ too long since we did that."

_It has_, she thought, letting out a sad sigh. Drying herself off as she went, she wandered into her darkened bedroom and sat down on the edge of the bed.

"I _knew_ I should've shagged you when I had the chance," I said, wondering if she could see me smirking at her from inside her head.

Her inelegant snort of laughter made her whole body shake. With a quiet _tsk_ noise, she pulled the covers back and wriggled beneath the cool, smooth sheets.

It did not escape my notice that she was still naked.

_What makes you think you would've had a chance?_

Well, _there_ was a challenge if ever I heard one. Chuckling, I returned to the memory of that last kiss. Within a few seconds, it shifted from memory to fantasy. I knew that we hadn't gone any further than my thumbs brushing against her breasts that night, but in my mind's eye, I hoisted her onto the counter, standing between her legs and cupping her chest as I kissed my way down her neck.

I couldn't help but feel triumphant when heat rushed through Hermione's abdomen. It certainly _seemed_ like I would've had a chance.

"I wish I could actually touch you," I murmured. The mental image of myself unbuttoned her pyjama top, revealing a tempting, pale strip of skin that begged to be kissed.

_Me too_, she thought, her inner voice breathy and soft.

"So," I said, allowing a bit of teasing laughter to enter my voice since I'd distracted her from her earlier embarrassment. "You wanna see me naked, do you?"

_Oh, I've only wanted that for the past _decade_ or so,_ she thought before she could stop herself.

I dragged her attention back to the fantasy, unwilling to let her start to feel bashful again. I concentrated on removing my own clothes and forming as detailed a picture as I could of what I'd look like without them. Somehow, she started joining in, yanking the pyjamas off of the mental image of herself, pulling me closer, and crashing her mouth against mine. She had an astonishingly vivid imagination; I could almost feel what it would be like if our naked skin was actually pressed together.

It felt like we would go up in flames at any moment. I thought I'd go crazy from the ache of wanting her — or her wanting me; I wasn't sure whose desire we were feeling. Either way, it was definitely mutual.

"Hermione," I whispered, once again feeling relieved that she couldn't slap me. "Touch yourself."

Thank Merlin, after only a moment's hesitation, she _did_.

I told her in words and pictures what I wished I could do to her as her hands slid over her body. When she finally let go completely, my name fell from her lips in a gasping moan. I thought there was probably no sweeter sound in the whole world.

"Um," she said, speaking aloud to me for once. "That was…"

"Yeah. It definitely was, wasn't it?"

Warm, satisfied, and content for the time being, she curled up on her side and let out a tiny yawn. I pictured myself in her bed, pulling her into my arms and giving her a long, slow kiss. Her lips — the real, physical ones — curved into a smile.

"Goodnight, Fred," she said.

"Goodnight, love."


	5. Waking the Dead

**Chapter Five: Waking the Dead**

The next day, Hermione had all sorts of grand plans to get permission from her supervisor to fill Perce in on what happened in the Death Chamber. She wanted us to have a little talk during their lunch break, in which I could hopefully alleviate some of his lingering guilt.

I was all for it, but in the end, _my_ opinion didn't make much difference. Hermione's boss said no. Apparently, having an Unspeakable wander around with the spirit of an uninitiated civilian lurking in her head was something of a security risk (thus my eventual Obliviation). She was ordered to stick me back beyond the Veil, first thing that morning.

As we entered the chilly, echoing Death Chamber, Hermione's thoughts turned morose. She went through the mechanical actions of brewing the potion and scrawling the symbols across the floor, her mind drifting and wandering along paths she didn't want it to take: replaying my death, my family's grief, and Percy's haunted face over and over again.

"Hey," I whispered as tears stung her eyes. "Don't be sad, love. You gave me the chance to come back, say one goodbye, and play a prank on my mum. That's far more than other people get. And hey! I even managed to pull, after a fashion."

Letting out a sob of laughter, she placed a hand over her heart and closed her eyes. "I'm going to miss you, Fred," she said. "_So_ much."

Even more fervently than the previous night, I wished I had my own body at that moment. I wanted to wrap my arms around her, to comfort her and hold her close until her tears vanished.

It took considerable effort, but Hermione managed to calm herself and clear her mind as she sat in the middle of her scribbled circle and began to chant. This time, instead of focusing on me, she set her thoughts on the Veil itself.

A white flash went off inside her head, dazzling and disorienting. As the multicoloured spots cleared from my vision, a misty, wavering Hermione appeared before me, extending her hand. I laced my fingers together with hers, marvelling at how I could feel her in spite of both of us seeming to be made of nothing more substantial than fog. Together, we soared out of Hermione's body. A golden chain anchored Hermione's spirit to her body, but the only thing keeping me from drifting off into nothingness was the tiny hand that was tucked into mine.

Knowing it was my very last chance, I grabbed her shoulders as we flew through the cavernous chamber and crashed my lips against hers. It felt different — less substantial — than it would have if we were both more solid, but I still relished every stroke of her tongue against mine, every unneeded breath she took that came out in a pleased gasp. I could no longer hear her thoughts, but out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw her physical body's mouth quirk into a smile.

I knew she could only hold her concentration for so long, so I reluctantly ended the kiss. I thought I should say something meaningful — tell her I loved her, maybe — but I wasn't sure if it would make the renewed mourning process better or worse for her. So, I kept quiet.

The tattered black Veil fluttered in a breeze from some unknown source, looking less like drapery and more like a tomb — at least to me. As we approached it, I wondered what lay beyond. Would I see Harry's parents? Mad Eye? Sirius? Would it just be a void, an endless sleep without dreams? I thought I'd prefer the former. Sirius was quite the prankster, in his day. We could probably get up to some serious mischief in the afterlife.

"Fred?" a familiar voice whispered, rising above the other frantic, disembodied murmurs beyond the Veil. "Fred, is that you?"

"Sirius?" I replied, reaching a hand towards the sound.

Hermione mirrored my action, and I thought I heard someone else say, "Miss Granger?" in a displeased baritone.

The plan was for Hermione's spirit to ferry me beyond the Veil before returning to her body — alone. Remember how swimmingly her plan went the first time, when she was just trying to communicate with me? Yeah. Take that mix-up and multiply it by ten to the power of "oh, damn." That was about where we ended up.

Hermione's focus snapped, making the symbols leap from the floor and whoosh around her body in a violent, dangerous blur. The grip of her spirit's fingers tightened around mind, but I could do nothing to help. Just as both of our hands made contact with the Veil, feeling two different hands behind it, the spell flew apart with a teeth-chattering bang and a flash, just like the first time.

Once Hermione came to and opened her eyes, it didn't take me long to realise that I was back in her body. Thankfully, so was she. I was so relieved that she was unharmed that I didn't immediately notice the grumbling in her head that was neither her nor me.

"Fuck me, that hurt. Where did that bitch go? I'll—"

Sirius's voice cut off with a gasp when Hermione scrambled to her feet and said, "Oh, no."

Remembering how unnerving it was to find myself suddenly a guest in someone else's mind, I decided to offer my expert advice.

"Hey there, Sirius," I said. "Welcome to Hermione's brain. Don't worry; there should be plenty of space for both of us. It's nice and roomy, if you don't mind stretching out among memorised bits of textbooks and—"

"For God's sake," another, far more irritated voice said. "Will you—"

"_Snivellus_?" Sirius said, his tone brimming with disgust and disbelief.

"Oh, this is just _fabulous_," Hermione, who had been sitting in stunned silence, said with an annoyed huff. "Is there anyone _else_ who has taken up residence in my brain?" When no one replied, she started gathering up the supplies that had scattered over the Death Chamber's stone floor, muttering the whole way. "All right then, roll call. Fred?"

"Present!"

"Sirius?"

"I'm here, Hermione, but what's going on? Where's Bellatrix gone? Where's _everyone_ gone, for that matter? You should run, look for help—"

"She won't be bothering us," Hermione said, exhaling a sad sigh. Closing her eyes, she allowed two scenes to flit through her mind in quick succession: the moment she learned of Sirius's death, followed by my mum's defeat of Bellatrix Lestrange.

I wished I'd been around to see Mum call Voldemort's most loyal servant a bitch. It must have been spectacular.

"Damn," Sirius said. "Well done, Molly."

"For once, Black," Snape said, spitting Sirius's surname as though it was a curse, "we agree."

"Professor Snape?" Hermione said.

"Yes, Miss Granger," he replied. "Unfortunately, I am here as well. You needn't replay the scene of my death. I'm well aware of what must have happened after I was bitten by Nagini."

Rather than Snape's death, what popped into Hermione's mind was a vision from her fourth year. I could feel her dismay as she struggled to keep from thinking about her teeth growing past her collar and a disdainful, sneering Snape telling her that he saw no difference.

"You utter, _utter_ prat," Sirius bellowed. "She was just a child, and you couldn't show an ounce of human decency—"

_Stop it, Sirius_, Hermione thought, clenching her jaw. _ It happened over a decade ago. I didn't even mean to think of it. Anyway, it's no worse than what _you_ used to do to _him_._

"Miss Granger—"

_With all due respect, I don't want to hear whatever you're about to say, either, Professor. Since I'm apparently sharing my mind with three other people, we're going to play by _my _rules. I'll not have you two running around my skull, bickering like a couple of old ladies; you'll do my head in._

I hoped she felt the proud feeling I sent her way for refusing to put up with their ancient grudge bullshit. Honestly, they were both _dead_. You'd think that maybe they could've let some of that shit go.

"About that," Sirius said, cutting off whatever retort Snape was about to make. "How, exactly, did we come to be inside your head?"

Snape murmured in disapproval as Hermione played out a visual explanation of her experiments with the Veil, largely glossing over everything that happened in between me becoming a guest in her head and Sirius and Snape arriving on the scene.

"Miss Granger," Snape said. "For magic this volatile, having a partner to stabilise the area around you would be beneficial. If you are unable to rein in your emotions, I imagine you will only end up with even more…_guests_."

I could feel Hermione's frustration building up in her chest. Not five seconds before Snape spoke, she'd been thinking that she would need assistance to put us back where we belonged. If I knew that she'd worked it out for herself, then Snape knew it as well. As much as she admired him for the bravery he'd shown during the war, she still resented the fact that he still refused to acknowledge that maybe, just maybe, there was something more to her cleverness than rote memorisation — that maybe she had some clue what she was doing, since she'd been an Unspeakable for years.

I think that in some naïve, optimistic way, she'd expected him to be easier to like, now that she knew the truth about him.

No matter who was responsible for the idea of asking for help, I was tentatively excited. If Hermione's boss would go for it, I reckoned we knew just the Unspeakable for the job.

-oOo-

"He's really in there?" Percy asked. Leaning across his desk, he looked intently at Hermione's eyes, as though he expected to see a shade of blue in her irises that matched his own instead of brown — as though he thought he'd find me staring back.

"Yeah," she replied. "And now, so are Sirius and Professor Snape."

He pursed his lips, obviously trying to fight a smile. "From what I've heard about their interactions when they were alive, that must not be very pleasant."

"_That's_ putting it mildly," Sirius muttered.

"Percy," Hermione said, placing her hand on top of his and ignoring the commentary from the inhabitants of her head. "Fred doesn't blame you. He wants you to know that."

Shaking his head, Perce let out a gasp of laughter. "That doesn't sound like something Fred would say."

Hermione frowned at my response to this, but repeated it after only a few seconds of hesitation: "He also says you're a sanctimonious prat and if you don't stop this wallowing nonsense, he's going to have me tell George to kick your arse. There was no way he could've protected himself from that bloody wall, even if you hadn't decided to finally pull the stick out of your arse and crack a joke. He…he d-died laughing — with a smile on his face. It was the best thing you could have done for him, you idiot."

"Ah," Percy said, turning his face away in embarrassment as his eyes misted over with unshed tears — the big sap. "Now _that _sounds like my brother."

"I need your help, Percy," she said. "I have to put them back, and I can't do it on my own—"

"But you don't want to put Fred back, do you?" Percy studied her face as he spoke, as if he was looking for the answer to a question he hadn't asked. With a long sigh, he brought a hand up to tug on one of her curls, wrapping the lock of hair around his finger and furrowing his brow in concentration.

"Of course I don't," she said. "Hell, I don't want to put Sirius or Professor Snape back, either. They were good men who didn't deserve what happened to them."

To my surprise, neither Sirius nor Snape had anything to say in response to this.

"Being able to talk to Fred again has been…I don't know," Hermione continued. "Wonderful and horrible all at once. Wonderful because I've missed him, and horrible because I know I can't keep him here. He doesn't belong, no matter how much I may wish otherwise."

Defeat dawned on Percy's face, sad and overwhelming. He tried to smile, but it came out as more of a grimace.

"You still love him," he said, sounding like he was just realising this himself. It was not a question.

Hermione's heart thudded in her chest as a blush spread across her cheeks. If I'd been in possession of my own body, I would have grinned.

"Right," Percy said, dropping a kiss to her forehead before standing up. "I'm going to need some time to prepare, then. I have research to do. Shall we say tomorrow morning?"

"He's planning something," Snape said.

The rest of us ignored him. I reckoned being a spy for a good portion of his adult life was bound to make him a bit overly-suspicious. Hermione and Sirius were more inclined to think Snape might be right, but the former didn't say anything out of loyalty to her friend, and the latter flat out refused to admit to agreeing with Snape.

"That's fine," Hermione replied. "I don't think I'd be ready to try again today, anyway. I'm still feeling all jittery from my last attempt."

Together, they exited his office and walked through the winding, disorienting corridors and multiple doors that led back to the Entrance Chamber of the Department of Mysteries. With a shaky smile at Hermione, Percy tapped his wand to the crown of his head and vanished through the door of the Ever-Locked Room.


	6. It Snowed Last Year

**Chapter Six: It Snowed Last Year**

_"It snowed last year too: I made a snowman and my brother knocked it down and I knocked my brother down and then we had tea." - Dylan Thomas_

By the next morning, I had come around to Snape's way of thinking where my big brother was concerned. Perce was definitely planning something. When he met Hermione at the entrance to the Death Chamber, he looked rougher than I'd ever seen him: bags under his eyes, glasses as crooked as our father's, dishevelled hair and wrinkled robes. He held himself as straight and rigid as ever, but there was an undercurrent to his proper demeanour — all secrets and grief and grim determination.

I wondered if he'd slept at all, or if he just stayed at the Ministry all night, throwing himself into his research with the sort of enthusiasm that most people reserved for sex or a really, really good sandwich.

"Good morning, Hermione," Percy said. I noticed the way his hand shook as he executed his customary tug of one of her curls, and the way he allowed himself to linger for a few seconds longer than usual when he kissed her forehead, his breath gusting over her hair in quick, almost panicked sighs. His stubble scratched her skin, which surprised her; she'd never seen him unshaven before.

"Morning, Percy," she replied with a cautious smile. "You all right?"

He nodded. "I'm well, thank you," he said. "If you'd like to get started, I'm ready."

His voice cracked on the last word, but Hermione dismissed it as reluctance to return me to my place beyond the Veil. With his hand resting against the small of her back, Percy led her into the Death Chamber.

While Hermione brewed the potion and drew the symbols, Percy paced back and forth, seeming to steady himself for some monumental task. This restarted Snape's suspicious mutterings about what my brother could possibly be up to.

"Right," Perce said once Hermione was seated in the middle of a circle of ancient symbols. "Shall we start with Professor Snape?"

"Fine by me," Snape said. "I'm more than eager to escape my present company."

"The feeling is mutual, Snivellus," Sirius replied.

_Professor_, Hermione thought,_ I'm sorry I couldn't_—

"Miss Granger," Snape interrupted, though his voice wasn't as harsh and biting as I would have expected. "There's no need for foolish sentiment or pointless regrets. I knew the risks involved in what I did. Now please, do your job and put me back where I belong. It reeks of dog in here."

Sirius made a few grumbles about over-large noses, but it was drowned out by Hermione's strained, sad gasp of laughter. Percy quirked an eyebrow.

"Professor Snape it is, then," she said, sitting down.

As she began chanting, Percy stalked around the outer rim of the circle, mumbling spells to stabilise her magical field under his breath. I couldn't see him, as Hermione's eyes were closed, but I could hear his echoing footsteps and feel the balancing waves of his magic.

"Weasley," Snape hissed in a voice that was barely a whisper as Hermione's incantation reached a crescendo. "If you care about your brother at all, you'll—"

And then, he was gone. Where he and Hermione had been, there was a gaping void. Her body continued its rhythmic breathing, but it was as though she'd slipped into a coma. Everything that made Hermione _Hermione_ — her thoughts and emotions and light — was absent.

"I reckon I'll be next," Sirius said quietly. "As much as I hate to admit it, Snivellus may be right for a change. I think your brother has plans for you."

"Hermione won't let him do anything too stupid or risky," I said, though I was not at all certain of the veracity of this statement. "And anyway, Perce has never been one to bend the rules, much less break them."

"Love often makes people do things they wouldn't ordinarily even consider," Sirius said. "Percy should know that better than most, since he works in the Love Chamber. And there are seven years of mourning and guilt added onto the Percy you knew. That sort of thing changes a man."

Before I could respond, Hermione was back — alone.

"It worked," she said in a voice that was a conflicting blend of relieved and melancholy.

Percy knelt next to her, rubbing a soothing hand up and down her back. "Do you want to take a break before the next one?" he asked. "Get up and stretch your legs, maybe?"

Nodding, she clambered to her feet. Sirius and I remained quiet, sensing that she needed a few moments to regroup and, maybe, to mourn a little bit. Percy took it upon himself to dip his fingers in the sticky green potion, renewing the symbols on the cold stone floor, which had already begun to fade. With a long, steadying breath, Hermione allowed him to trace over the disappearing lines of the rune on her forehead.

"Ready?" he murmured, giving her shoulder a comforting squeeze when she answered in the affirmative. "Sirius next?"

A lump formed in Hermione's throat. _Sirius_, she thought.

"Hey," he said. "None of that. No apologies. It's okay, love. I've lived my life."

It wasn't true, of course. Most of his prime years were spent locked up in Azkaban for crimes that weren't his. Still, it was nice of him to try to reassure her with pretty lies.

"If you can," he said, "I'd appreciate it if you let Harry know I'm proud of him — of the man he's become. And I heartily approve of his eldest boy's name."

Hermione chuckled. _I'll do my best_.

The process we'd gone through with Snape repeated, this time leaving me entirely alone in Hermione's head until she returned — without Sirius. I did what I could to offer solace when I felt the bitter sting of her grief, sharing a mental picture of myself hugging her and kissing her cheek.

_I don't want to do it, Fred_, she thought as Percy helped her to her feet for another break. _I—_

"Expelliarmus."

Hermione watched, stunned into silence, as her vinewood wand flew out of her fingers and clattered to the ground on the other side of the chamber. In the next heartbeat, Percy aimed a Sticking Spell at her feet, anchoring her in place.

"Percy!" she exclaimed, panic and suspicion tingeing her voice. "What are you doing?"

"I found the answer," he replied. With harried movements, he withdrew a few supplies from the inner pockets of his robes. He added a sprinkle of something purple and glowing to the bubbling cauldron of potion, then scrambled to change the layout of the symbols on the floor. On his own forehead, he drew what I initially thought was an X.

"Percy," Hermione whispered, a billion explanations for his strange behaviour whirring through her head, too fast for me to focus on any single one. "Gebo?" she added, pointing at what I suddenly realised was a rune painted in vivid purple on his freckled skin. "Gifts...sacrifices? Percy Weasley, what—"

"I loved — _love _— Fred enough," he said. The intensity that shone in his eyes echoed the truth of his words.

I was too confused and worried to even think the word, "poof."

"It'll work," Perce continued, somehow managing to look pompous and sure of himself even as his entire body trembled. "I'm certain of it. I spent almost all night in the Ever-Locked Room. If I consciously choose to—"

"No." Hermione gasped her monosyllabic protest, a sob rising in her throat.

The image that flickered through her mind next made me scream as the horrifying truth of Percy's plan crashed over me. She pictured Harry's mum, young and beautiful and brave, standing in front of her infant son, refusing to move aside, giving her life so that he might live.

Gebo. Gifts. Sacrifices. Sacrificial love.

_No_.

"Hermione!" I yelled. "Don't let him do it! Tell him he had better not fucking _dare_!"

"He says don't do it!" she said, sobbing and fisting her hands in the front of Percy's robes as he approached her. She tried to take his wand, but his arms were long enough to hold it out of her reach with ease. "Percy! Don't. Don't you fucking _dare_."

"There's a note in my flat," he whispered, tears clouding his eyes. "On the kitchen table. Make sure my mother and father get it, please."

"_No_! I'm not going to let you do this to them...make them mourn another son..._no_!"

"They'll be gaining two. They'll get George back as well."

With that, the tears spilled from his eyes, fogging up his glasses and streaming down his face. I had never wanted to hit him or hug him more than I did at that moment.

"Fred," he said, cupping Hermione's cheek with his free hand. "I just want to make one thing abundantly clear: this is _not_ for you."

And then his mouth was suddenly on hers, his lips moving in a fierce, desperate way, pouring months of longing into a single kiss. It was then that I realised Percy's feelings for Hermione ran deeper than I initially suspected.

He loved her.

She kissed him back, clinging to him as though she thought she could change his mind if she just held on tight enough. In the back of her mind, there was the glimmer of something more — just a whisper of potential, really. It made me think that if Hermione hadn't started playing around with the Veil, Percy's love might have eventually been requited. I suspected it would have been natural and easy for the two bookworms to end up together.

I guess I'll never know for certain.

"No," Hermione whimpered when he pulled away and raised his wand.

Percy pried her hands off of his robes and took a few steps back, taking care to remain within the circle of symbols. He chanted unfamiliar words in a long-dead language, well beyond my knowledge of spellcaster's Latin. I felt myself soar through the air for a split-second before the unfamiliar weight of a new body settled around me. Through Percy's eyes, I saw Hermione, sobbing and reaching towards him with repetitive pleas to stop what he was doing.

"You _idiot_!" I shouted. "Look at her! She doesn't want you to do this! She wants you to stay here and keep having your mind-numbingly boring lunches and talk about cauldron bottom thicknesses and—"

_I'm not doing it for her_, he thought. _I'm doing it for you_. Closing his eyes, he pictured our family as they had looked at my funeral. _I'm doing it for them_.

"Like they'll be any happier when they bury _you_?" I snapped.

_They'll have you to help them remember how to laugh_.

He turned to face the Veil, raising my dismay to fever-pitch and making Hermione's shrieks of protest intensify.

"You are such a stubborn git!" I yelled. "You might think you're doing the right thing, but you also thought you were doing the right thing in siding with the Ministry at first, remember? This is no different. _I don't want you to do this for me_, Perce! I'd rather you live, you utter prat!"

He faltered for a moment, but then shook his head and took off at a run towards the Veil. Hermione's screams were barely audible over the roaring of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. Just before he dove through the tattered black fabric, he shared one last thought with me.

_Don't ever feel guilty about this, Fred. Do what I couldn't: let it go. Be happy. Remember, this was my choice. _

I tried to reiterate that it was the _wrong_ choice, but it was too late. As soon as we hit the curtain, Percy was gone. His body disappeared, and I found myself in my own skin for the first time in seven years.

I was immediately engulfed by crushing, excruciating waves of pain. My broken ribs and arms and legs seemed to set themselves back into place, knitting together and healing at an astonishing speed. The bruises that riddled my skin magically vanished, dissipating like puffs of steamy breath in winter. When it no longer hurt to draw in a breath, I suddenly found myself sprawled on a familiar stone floor, staring up at a pair of mournful, worried brown eyes.

If Hermione's feet were no longer glued in place, then Percy's magic had vanished. I closed my eyes against the new, very different sort of pain that welled up in my chest.

He'd really done it.

"Fred," Hermione said with a sniffle, tracing her fingers over my face in disbelief. In a broken whisper, she added, "Oh, Percy. You noble fool."

Somehow, she retained the presence of mind to retrieve her wand and conjure a blanket to wrap around my naked body. If I'd been less consumed with thoughts of my brother's death, I probably would have wondered how the hell I was going to get out of the Ministry whilst completely starkers.

Looking down, I noticed that my injuries from the Battle of Hogwarts hadn't left any lasting marks. The only new scar on my body was an X on my chest — over my heart. I reckoned it was a bit like Harry's lightning bolt; both were given to us as a result of powerful magic. His scar was carved out by evil and darkness, while mine was the exact opposite. The rune on my chest was the result of the most ancient magic on earth.

I could have done all manner of things at that point. I could have ranted and raved about Percy's stubbornness. I could have cried, though I probably wouldn't have admitted it to you if I did. I could have held Hermione close and let her cry herself dry on my shoulder for her lost friend.

Instead, I wrapped an arm around her waist, tried to force something that resembled a smile, and said five simple words:

"_Told_ you he fancied you."


	7. Love is all you Need

**Epilogue: Love is all you Need**

When I entered the Burrow, flanked by Hermione and George, I thought Mum was going to faint. She stared at me, silent and wide-eyed, with one floury hand over her mouth. The cake batter she'd been beating with a charmed whisked seemed to explode, splattering all over the floor, the wall, the counter, and us. For his part, Dad appeared rooted to his spot next to her — unable to move, unable to think, unable to even breathe.

Hermione had tried to warn them, but how do you adequately prepare someone to see their long-dead son walking and talking and perfectly well? Her, "Try not to be alarmed, okay? The person you're about to see is exactly who he seems," didn't quite cut it.

"Hey," I said, rocking back onto my heels and shrugging my shoulders in a failed attempt at nonchalance. "What's for dinner, Mum?"

With that, instead of passing out, Mum kissed every last inch of my face and called me her baby and I don't even know what else, because she cried through the whole thing. Her sniffling and babbling was loud enough to drown out Hermione's shaky voice as she attempted to offer Dad something resembling an explanation.

By the way, my mum will probably do something very similar to you, someday. In public. With your friends there, if at all possible. It's just how she is. You'll love her anyway, I promise.

Dad was the first to realise that something was wrong — that the redness of Hermione and George's eyes wasn't entirely due to happy tears inspired by my return.

And, okay, my eyes _may_ have been a bit puffy as well, but don't you dare ever tell anyone.

I was the one to hand them Percy's letter. It seemed right, since he said he sacrificed himself for me. I still don't know if that was entirely true, though. Even now, I can't get some of his final words to me out of my head:

_Do what I couldn't: let it go. Be happy. _

Which means he _wasn't_ happy, right? Well, how much of what he did that day in the Death Chamber was really about helping me get my second chance, and how much was about ending his own misery? And why was he so bloody sad? There _had_ to be more to it than my death and a dash of unrequited love. Perce was made of sterner stuff than that — I know it. It wasn't for nothing that he was sorted into Gryffindor.

Percy's letter...well, it said a lot of things, but in the end, he left all of us with more questions than answers.

In his ever-impeccable penmanship, he spelled out apologies and reasons that made my mother fall to the floor. Her mouth dropped open and her face crumpled, as though she wanted to wail but found her breath stuck in her chest. Dad moved to catch her, too late, and let out the most heart-wrenching sob I'd ever heard in my life, simply because it came from my _father_.

I think it's an unwritten law that if something is bad enough to make your dad break down in tears in front of you, it's basically the worst fucking thing in the world.

Losing me in the Battle of Hogwarts broke my parents, but they managed to more or less paste themselves back together — not quite the same as they were before, of course. There were still visible cracks and fissures, but they were okay enough to get by. I died fighting to make our world a better place, to preserve everything they believed was good and right. Percy's death was something else entirely — something desperate and wrong and guilt-inducing.

I know that to this day, Mum and Dad must wonder where they went wrong, what they could have done differently, how they could have saved him. I can't begin to imagine what they must have felt upon learning that one of their children killed himself, nor do I want to try. Grief that deep and all-consuming doesn't bear contemplating.

I kind of hated Percy for doing that to them.

But that's me and Perce summed up, isn't it? Hate and love, all rolled up in a messy ball of sibling rivalry and affection. But, after some time passed and the overwhelming pain that accompanied my thoughts of Percy faded to a dull ache, I chose love. I chose to forgive him. I chose to do my best to fulfil his last wishes: to be happy and to help our family laugh again.

After all, if the prat hadn't loved me every bit as much as I loved him, his attempt to bring me back to life would have failed. I may not seem like it, but I _am_ grateful. Every moment I'm alive is only possible because of Percy. _You_ are only possible because of Percy.

Wait, that last bit didn't sound right. Phrasing it that way made it seem like I required his assistance during the actual process of making you. That was _definitely _not the case.

I suspect you might one day end up wishing that I had decided to hold onto my anger. If I had still been furious when you entered the world, I wouldn't have agreed to Hermione's request to name you Percy.

Actually, that's a lie. I probably would have. Sorry, kid. For her to actually voice the question, "Can we call him Percy?" let me know that naming you after my late brother meant the world to her.

You see, Hermione's mourning has been mostly silent and secretive, restricted to tracing the X on my chest when she thinks I'm asleep and weeping when she thinks I can't hear. I have to admit, it bothered me at first — not in an insecure, she's-in-love-with-my-dead-brother sort of way, because I don't think that's true, but in an it-makes-me-feel-powerless-to-help sort of way. Now, though, I think I get it. Everyone has their own method of coping. Mine tends to involve pranks, sex, or pouring my heart out to people who can't yet understand or respond, it'd seem.

Anyway, there are plenty of names out there that are miles worse than Percy George Weasley. Once again, I bring your attention to the example of your unfortunate cousin, Albus Severus Potter.

I suppose I should probably start referring to Hermione as "your mum" when I talk to you, but to be honest, I'm still having a bit of trouble wrapping my head around the notion that she's really your mother — that _I'm_ really your father. It's only been a week since I staggered into the waiting room at St. Mungo's and announced your name, time of birth, and weight (why does everyone always want to know what newborns weigh? It's not like they're Christmas turkeys) to a swarm of excited Weasleys, Potters, and Hermione's rather frazzled-looking parents.

I think George and Luna confused the Grangers. You'll see what I mean when you get older. Luna is, well, _Luna_, and ever since she and George got married, they seem to communicate with each other using a series of complex eyebrow wiggles. It's unsettling.

You're really going to have to give me time to get used to this whole Dad thing. Like I said, it's all very, very new. Hell, most days I have a hard time reconciling my image of Hermione — sorry, of your _mum_ — with the word "wife," and she's been_ that _for going on four years now.

Incidentally, your mum would be very, very cross if she knew the things I've been telling you, but it's not like you'll actually remember any of it, will you? Newborns have the memory capacity of a Flobberworm.

Err, no offence.

I'll give you the boring, clean-language, censored version of this story when you're older. I doubt you'll actually want to hear most of the good bits, anyway. If you're anything like me, you'll want to cling to the belief that your parents are asexual beings.

Good luck with that. It's going to be a struggle with us, _believe_ me.

To be honest, I'm rather conflicted. I'm not sure how much I should reveal about my return from beyond the Veil once you _are_ old enough to remember my words. Being locked in Hermione's head for a few days clearly made me paranoid; I've recently caught myself worrying about you attempting to copy Percy in some way if you ever lose someone you love.

Don't ever do that. _ Ever_. He shouldn't have, and if it wouldn't have made things even worse for my parents, my siblings, and Hermione, I would have figured out exactly how he did it and dove right through that fucking Veil myself to bring him back.

On the other hand, I don't want to act as though the circumstances of Percy's death are some shameful secret. That would be doing his memory a disservice. He was brave and stubborn and clever and stupid, and in my perfect world, it would've been possible for you to know him. He would have bossed you around and driven you insane, but you still would've loved him.

I reckon I'll figure out the right balance, in time. Better I start practicing now, when your biggest concerns in life are a dry bum and where the hell the pretty milk machine with the soothing voice has gone.

Listen, I don't want you to feel like just because your name is Percy and you're Hermione's son that you have to be a prefect or Head Boy or the best at everything. Your mum would probably prefer that you actually _finish_ school, but aside from that, there's no pressure. Don't ever think that you have to live up to the standards my brother set for himself in order to become someone who would've made him proud.

Growing up, Perce was forever trying to teach me something — how to behave myself, how to study, how to shut up already so he could concentrate. He always went about it in the wrong way, of course, but he wouldn't have been _Percy _if he didn't. I think that if he had just one wish for your future, it'd be for me to pass on the single most important lesson that he actually managed to get past my thick skull.

So remember this, son: love is all you need.

_The End_

* * *

_**A/N:**__ Thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed — especially those of you who have stuck around since I first posted Chapter One! The line, "Love is all you need," is, of course, borrowed from the Beatles. I'm currently thinking about writing a side-story focusing on George and Luna's romance, but I probably won't get to that for quite some time. This was one of my favourite fics to write, so I hope you enjoyed it. :)_


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